


To Keep the World at Bay

by a_static_world



Series: This Life That We've Created [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Jaskier | Dandelion is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Kid Fic, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), dads!, more than there has been whoops, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: “Ciri asked about Kaer Morhen again yesterday.”or,Ciri wants to become a witcher. Her dads aren't quite convinced.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg/Original Female Character(s)
Series: This Life That We've Created [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752847
Comments: 24
Kudos: 229





	To Keep the World at Bay

Yennefer woke to a faceful of coily black hair and an arm slung around her waist. She hummed, pressing her nose in further and breathing deep. Thalia wiggled, and again Yen was struck by just how fucking  _ much  _ she loved this woman. It was, quite honestly, an unreasonable amount. Melitele, she was thankful for Jaskier at this moment (is it weird to think of your best friend while in bed naked with your wife? Maybe a little).

After Ciri’s birthday (a little over six years now, gods) she’d returned to Calanthe, laden with gifts from the girl and stories of a happy, well-adjusted child. Calanthe had been  _ pissed _ , to the point where even Eist looked powerless; it was all Yennefer could do to keep from laughing. Mousesack just looked rather misty as she described the vibrant twelve-year-old who was learning to use a sword and who could play the lute almost as well as her father.

She hadn’t said that,  _ father _ , while at court. As much as Yennefer enjoyed seeing the old bat angry, she rather liked having her head and shoulders in the same place. So, she’d respectfully referred to the men as the bard and the witcher, not wanting to bring Calanthe’s wrath down upon them more than necessary. She’d been worried that the queen would try to take Ciri back, use force to rip the girl away and spirit her back to Cintra. 

Eist, however, had saved them. He’d thanked her, dismissed her (thank  _ fuck _ because Yennefer could  _ not _ stop thinking about that apothecary back in Rodzinne, Melitele). She’d heard the shouts as she walked away, head held high and a dried black-eyed susan pressed between her dress and her corset. She’d return; there was no fucking  _ way _ she was going to languish in this court a moment longer when she finally felt that, somewhere, a life awaited her. 

She’d been called back to the throne room the next day. Eist calmly explained to her that, at the queen’s behest, she was to return to Rodzinne. She would keep an eye on the princess, attempt to instill some courtly behaviors and proper education into her, and send monthly reports back to Cintra. Yennefer, of course, graciously accepted, tamping the bubbling joy down tight as she curtsied to the fuming queen and tense king-consort. 

_ Free. _ She was free, and she’d portaled directly into Rodzinne as soon as she could. She’d begun courting the apothecary, to the delight of Ciri and her fathers (not that Geralt ever showed much enthusiasm, but that was neither here nor there). She proposed a year later, and they were married in a matter of months after that. Yennefer had also taken it upon herself to send blatant and bland lies to Cintra, telling the queen that Cirilla was a model princess, she knew herself to be above the filth she lived in, yadda yadda. 

She hoped Mousesack enjoyed reading them as much as she enjoyed writing them. 

Thalia stirred, startling Yen out of her thoughts. It was late for the apothecary; she normally liked to be up and in the shop by the time Jan started baking, and Yennefer had been smelling bread for the past half hour. But she’d looked so peaceful, the little wrinkle in her forehead smoothed in sleep, and Yen couldn’t bear to wake her. 

“Yennefer, if Jan’s been baking for more than ten minutes, I will never forgive you.”

And then she was up, hurtling around the room, getting dressed as though she was racing time itself. Yen propped herself on her elbows, grinning as Thalia raked her hair back into a messy poof, ring glinting in the early morning sun as she tied it off with a piece of twine. Thalia never rested; she was in constant motion, fingers dancing over herbs and handling knives in a way that, quite honestly, made Yen’s mouth run dry.

She’d found a place in the schoolyard with Jaskier, two years after she’d moved for good. While he was a fair shake at reading and music, mathematics and science escaped him, and Yen eagerly stepped in. She’d vowed to never,  _ ever _ treat these children like Tissaia had treated her, and they’d taken to her like ducks in water. She smiled, stretching as Thalia pressed a kiss into her hair before gliding down the stairs to her shop. 

Yennefer groaned, forcing her body out of the warm bed and recoiling as her feet met the cold wood planks. Autumn was short and brutal this far north, a taste of the longer, far more brutal winter. Jaskier and Geralt would fuck off to Kaer Morhen, soon, and the children would get their holiday break.  _ Thank Melitele _ . She loved the kids, really, but they were ready for a break. Yen thought through the day’s plan while dressing as quickly and as close to the chimney as she could, adding an extra petticoat just to be safe. She clattered down the stairs, kissing Thalia and sneaking in a cheeky squeeze before making her way to the schoolhouse. 

“Geralt, my love, it’s far too fucking cold out.” 

Geralt snorted as Jaskier’s nose pressed into his neck; the fire had gone out last night, and while his mutagens had kept him warm, his far more human (fragile) husband had suffered. In his words, at least.  _ Geralt  _ was pretty sure Jaskier had been a fucking furnace in a past life. He slung an arm over the other man’s waist regardless, pulling him close and tangling their legs together. 

“Ciri asked about Kaer Morhen again yesterday.”

The words felt small, pressed into his throat. He swallowed, trying not to clench his jaw. Bad for his teeth, especially this early in the morning. Ciri had been asking to stay on at Kaer Morhen, to  _ train to be a witcher,  _ since last winter. Really, it was their own fault she was so damn stubborn. Something in his gut twisted, though, every time he thought about the mutation, the Path, the potions. The  _ thing _ she would become, the creature  _ he  _ had become, for a hundred years, until Jaskier shook him out of it.

It wasn’t a matter of strength-she was strong enough; she’d been training relentlessly for the past six years, and was already plenty deadly, in his humble opinion. She could also play the lute as well as Jaskier, though he’d never tell him that, and had taken to playing in the town tavern once or twice a week. Despite this (though it set their teeth on edge every time she went, men being men regardless of her parentage), Geralt could  _ feel  _ her practically chomping at the bit. He sighed, tightening his arm around Jaskier. 

“I...still don’t know, Jask. I don’t ever want her to be like me.”

Whispered confessions, still safe after all this time in the hands of the man he loved. To no one else would he admit that his greatest fear was to watch his daughter become a killing machine, ruthless and untethered and hollow just like he’d been. The rational part of him said they’d never let it happen, that Cirilla had grown up under better influence, wouldn’t be abandoned at the keep like a stray dog. The dad part of him screamed to keep her home and safe forever, to make sure no harm ever came to her.

_ Irrational and possessive and not right _ , he reminded himself, as Jaskier stroked a hand through his hair. Children grew up, left home; it was simply the way of things. He was so,  _ so _ proud of who she’d become, the little girl who’d once growled “ _ fuck” _ just to make him laugh growing into a woman who sang to babies and talked to horses and wove flower crowns for her boyfriend.

Ugh, her boyfriend. She and the baker’s boy had, after  _ years _ of blushing and sparring and pretend-hatred, “gotten together” at Ciri’s birthday. Jaskier had wept, literally, the first time Ciri wrote a song about the boy, and cooed over them  _ endlessly _ . Endearing and adorable as it was, Geralt, Lambert, Eskel, and Vesemir had not wasted a single opportunity to stand menacingly and glare before Jaskier shooed them off. Melitele, where had the fucking time  _ gone. _

Jaskier kissed his cheek, the corner of his eye before getting up and starting to get dressed for work. Geralt supposed he should, too, but made the self-indulgent decision to watch Jaskier instead. He winced as the man’s knees cracked; much as he’d like to ignore the fact that time continued to run, Jaskier was fast coming up on his mid-forties. He brushed the thought off, catching his husband’s wry gaze as he laced his breeches. 

“That creaking you hear isn’t pain, love, it’s applause.”

“Applause for what? Pertest arse? Prettiest eyes?”

Jaskier blushed. Geralt wasn’t much one for verbal affirmation; genuine compliments made him feel uneasy, and he much preferred a comforting (silent) touch to words easily misconstrued for sarcasm. Jaskier, however,  _ lived _ for validation, craved the kind words that had been denied him in his youth. Geralt sometimes wondered if it wasn’t half the reason he became a bard in the first place. They’d learned, over the years, all the ways the other worked. 

Geralt was still  _ incredibly _ pleased every time he managed to make Jaskier flush.

They were soon both dressed, emerging from their bedroom to find Ciri sitting and sipping her morning tea at the kitchen table. She merely raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement, clearly still angry at their continued refusal to let her stay on at the keep. In all honesty, Geralt would consider it if the whole mind-body-soul altering processes weren’t a factor. He’d tried, time and again, to make her agree to simply train, not take the mutagens. And she, time and again, had refused, leading them to the stalemate they were currently locked in.

He watched her close her eyes and tamp down a grin as Jaskier kissed the top of her head and headed to the schoolhouse. He did the same, pressing a rough kiss to the side of her head as she batted his hands away from her crown of braids. She outright smiled as he held up his hands in surrender, burying it in her mug as he headed out to the forge. 

He’d take the successes he could get. 

Often, Jaskier’s favorite part of his day was teaching. That being said, it was coming on winter break; the children were restless and irritable, and prone to bouts of mischief that in the summer months would make him laugh. He found himself longing for Kaer Morhen, the sheer fucking silence and adult conversation the keep offered. Melitele, he really was turning into Geralt.  _ Blessed fucking silence.  _ If a child asked him one more time what his favorite color was, Jaskier was about ninety-nine percent sure he’d scream. 

(It was gold, like the sunset).

His respite was lunchtime, when the horde were turned loose to their families and he and Yen had half an hour to themselves. They usually swapped ridiculous stories that their respective spouses would  _ hate _ for them to repeat (they did it anyway). Today, though, Jaskier was occupied by the pressing question of Ciri’s imminent witcher-ification. She’d always been more like Geralt, and Jaskier quite honestly didn’t resent that a bit. The terror that gripped him, though, every time she broached the subject? All-consuming and hot in a way he hadn’t felt since she was thirteen and broke her arm falling out of the apple tree. 

He looked up as Yen nudged him, eyebrows knitted together in both concern and irritation. 

“Jaskier, what the fuck is going on? I just said Thalia almost sliced her finger off yesterday and you didn’t even flinch. And you  _ hate _ my gross apothecary wife stories.”

Jaskier shuddered. He did hate gross apothecary stories; just because he’d stitched wounds and washed off gore in the past did  _ not _ mean he enjoyed it. 

“Sorry, Yen. Ciri’s back on the witcher warpath, and as much as I want her to be her own person, it’s pretty fucking terrifying to think about.”

Yennefer hummed, spearing a bit of squash with her fork and waving it around as she thought. He trusted her judgment almost as much as Geralt’s; any and all doubt that she was still working for Calanthe had been erased when she’d shown up at his door clutching her first “report” and half-laughing, half-sobbing at the bullshit she’d written. 

“You said Vesemir told you and Geralt he’d been developing safer, less...fucked-up mutagens for a couple years now, right?”

“Yes, but I’d prefer my daughter to not be the test subject.”

Yen coughed, choking on her salad as she rolled her eyes at him. She swallowed, pointing her fork at him. Ah. He was in for it, then. 

“I don’t think anybody, bar my dickhead of a father, would willingly give their child up to powers they can’t control. But Ciri is a  _ woman _ . As much as we’d all like to, we can’t keep her here forever; this is her decision to make. And it is  _ your _ responsibility to ensure she knows exactly the risk she’s taking.”

She was fucking right, gods damn it. It was Ciri’s choice, and both he and Geralt knew it, deep down. He just wished that her intended career path was, oh, he didn’t know, maybe a traveling troubadour as opposed to a feared and dangerous monster-assassin. 

“Thanks, Yen. As much as I loathe saying it, you’re right.”

He just barely dodged the carrot chunk sent sailing at his head.  _ Damn  _ his aging body. 

Eventually the school-day drew to a close, Jaskier giving each and every student a hug as they left and flopping limp against the doorway once they’d gone.  _ Maiden, mother, and crone, I’m ready for a break _ . He was so tired he didn’t even notice Geralt until the man hoisted Jaskier into his arms. He did  _ not _ squawk indignantly, nor did Yennefer laugh openly as she waved goodbye. 

“Oh, put me  _ down,  _ you brute, people are staring!”

“Mmm, ‘sthat ruffle your feathers, lark?”

Jaskier pouted, digging his chin in sharp to the meat of the other man’s shoulder. Geralt laughed, the sound rumbling into Jaskier’s chest as he looped his arms around the witcher’s neck. 

“So, valiant witcher, what’s on the menu for tonight?”

“Well, I’d been thinking a starter course of vegetable soup, a main of uncomfortable conversation with our daughter, and for dessert? You, of course.”

Jaskier groaned, the anxiety of the coming discussion drowning out any and all response to Geralt’s innuendo. 

“Yen said we should let her do it. With whatever Vesemir’s come up with-we know he would never hurt her  _ nor _ lie to us-and her pre-existing training, I think she’ll be okay.”

Geralt stilled, allowing Jaskier to wiggle down his body and open the door to the cottage. The witcher sighed heavily, sitting at the kitchen table and burying his head in his hands. Jaskier stood behind him, raking a hand through his hair and working out the knots as gently as he could, giving the man time to think.

“It’s her choice, love. We can’t keep her forever, you know.”

“I know. I just...need more time to get used to it. I’ll be ready by the time we leave.”

Reasonable, then. Jaskier could work with that. Giving Ciri a deadline for their decision, as futile as it may be, would hopefully settle her down for the time being. Geralt had something about vegetable soup- that sounded good. 

Jaskier (and, by extension, Yennefer) was right. They couldn’t keep her, but, damn him, Geralt wasn’t ready to let go just yet. He wanted one last full year, one last fall at home before they left her at the keep in the spring.  _ Fuck, _ parenting was  _ fucking hard. _ He’d thought raising a toddler was difficult; he wished he could go back, now (not really. Nappies were a gods-damned  _ nightmare) _ . Still, Geralt felt like he was wading chest-deep into his worst fear, and it was too close to flooding his mouth and filling his lungs for comfort.

He was spared his own melodrama by Ciri bounding through the door, dropping into the chair next to his and laying her head on his shoulder. Gods, she must really want this; she hadn’t tried to puppy-eye him into a decision since she was nine and Jaskier had refused to let her eat without washing her hands. She straightened as Jaskier brought in the pot of soup, grabbing the bowls out from under his arm just before they fell. 

They ate in a few minutes of blessed silence before-

“Dad, Papa, I’ve been thinking. I think I deserve to at least  _ try _ . I don’t know what I need to do to prove to you both that I can handle...whatever they throw at me, but I’ll do it.”

Yeah, he was gonna let Jask take this one. He shot the man a look, relaxing slightly as the bard dipped his head and opened his mouth. 

“We believe you, love, but it’s gonna take dad and I some time to think about it. We’ll be decided by the time we leave, promise.” 

Ciri nodded. She wasn’t upset, thank Melitele, just...deflated. Geralt knocked his shoulder against hers, forcing her to look up at Jaskier, who was currently engaged in making various faces across the table. She laughed, and the sound warmed Geralt the way it had for sixteen years. 

“So, Cirilla darling, let’s talk other news. I’ve heard that you’re becoming quite popular at the Boar’s Bristle. Tell me, how does it feel to be the daughter of the most renowned musician on the continent?”

“I’m not Valdo Marx’s kid, papa.”

Geralt burst out laughing as Jaskier gaped, puffing like a fish out of water and throwing his hands in the air. 

“Wh- oh,  _ no _ , you need a  _ nap _ . On so many levels, what you just said- consider yourself  _ lucky  _ that vile piece of haddock didn’t raise you. Melitele above, you teach your daughter to play the lute and sing and  _ this _ is how she thanks you?”

Geralt was close to crying, now, head thrown back as Ciri giggled next to him and Jaskier continued to rail. He’d once, in anger (and, yes, sleep deprivation), told Jaskier his voice sounded like a pie with no filling. The regret had been immediate, and he’d spent the next week apologizing, but  _ Melitele _ , Jaskier’s reaction had been so ridiculous he couldn’t help but laugh. Somehow, that didn’t even hold a  _ candle _ to this. Jaskier looked as if someone had tipped his lute over the edge of a mountain  _ and _ lit his garden on fire, all while dancing on Rascal’s grave. 

“Cirilla-” he wheezed, desperately trying to maintain some authority and good-standing with his husband. Geralt cleared his throat, thanking the gods and his witcher training keeping him steady as Jaskier leveled his gaze at him.

“Cirilla, apologize to your papa. You know the Marx Rule.”

“Sorry, papa, you know I would never let myself be raised by...him.”

Jaskier nodded, slightly mollified. They all knew he wasn’t really angry, just as they knew Ciri didn’t mean it, but tensions in the house were just on this side of too high for cutting jokes, and none of them particularly wanted to dip in more. So they finished their meal with anecdotes from their day, washing up in pleasant, if not slightly strained, silence. 

Ciri pulled her lute out after dinner, tuning it to disguise the fact that she was very much listening to her fathers whisper in the kitchen. Her dad had taught her all she needed to know about tracking, the difference between listening and hearing coming in  _ especially _ handy when pertaining to conversations about her. If she tried she could make out what they were saying, catch the murmured snatches of “ _ can’t stop- _ ” and “ _ her choice _ ”.

Good. It  _ was _ her fucking choice. She’d wanted this since she was old enough to understand what dad had done before her, since her papa began to tell her bedtime stories about the White Wolf of Rivia. She loved her papa, fiercely; some of her favorite memories were learning the lute on his lap and hearing him hum in the kitchen. But she felt in her  _ bones _ that she was meant to be a witcher. It was her destiny. 

Ciri’s fingers slipped as her dad growled, twanging the instrument loud enough to let them know she was listening.  _ Fuck _ . The hushed conversation stopped, the clink of plates resuming after a tense pause. She strummed halfheartedly, fingers slipping into the melody of  _ Toss a Coin _ without thinking. Her dad left the kitchen, looking only a little more like an over-coiled spring than usual, and kissed the top of her head before disappearing into his bedroom. 

She closed her eyes, let her fingers wander, dropping  _ Toss a Coin _ in favor of a maudlin tune she’d picked up from a traveling bard a few years ago. She didn’t realize her papa had left the kitchen until he sniffled behind her. Her eyes flew open, twisting in her chair to see the man in tears, halfway out of the kitchen door. She’d seen her papa cry, before; he was a much softer touch than one would think, and he let himself cry often. 

She’d never seen him cry like this. 

Face crumpled, a hand in his hair, he looked...distraught. She was moving before she realized it, leaping out of her chair and barreling towards his chest. He staggered back, catching her and crushing her into him. She’d begun crying, too, at some point; her tears soaked into his shirt, stung her face. They swayed, rooted to the spot, clinging like drowning men. 

“Papa, I don’t want to leave you and dad.”

“I don’t want you to leave us either, sparrow. Melitele, I’m fucking  _ terrified _ . However. I love you, and dad and I will always be right here, and if you stay here much longer I’m pretty sure you’ll murder us all.”

It was her turn to laugh, unsticking her face from his chest, dragging the back of her hand across her cheeks, under her nose. Her papa looked ridiculous, all puffy eyes and wet shirt, and her giggles turned into full, heaving belly-laughs. She laughed until her ribs ached and even her dad stuck his head out from where he’d been brooding. And the whole while her papa held her, even when her laughter turned back into sobs and the witcher came to hold both of them upright. 

Somehow they all ended up in her parents’ room, curled together on the bed like they did when she was little. Her dad had an arm slung over her, hand settled on her papa’s hip, and her papa was rubbing soft circles on her back as her breathing evened out. She would be fine, this would be fine. Witcher or no, they’d be here, with Auntie Yen and Thalia and Szymon and the rest. 

Jaskier woke up to a puffy face and a mouthful of hair. He couldn’t remember the last time Ciri had slept with them; he hadn’t missed the feet in his ribs or good-morning hair, but he’d missed his girl all the same. She and Geralt were still asleep, breathing matched as he quietly padded out of the bedroom. Tea was in order, he figured; chamomile, for his joints and swollen face. He’d just barely put the kettle on before there was a soft knocking at the door.

Yen poked her head in, knowing by now that she was welcome to enter even without knocking. Jaskier managed a smile, pulling an extra mug down from the cupboard and setting it in front of her as she settled herself at the table. 

“So, you look terrible. What happened?”

Jaskier winced. Never one to mince words, Yennefer. 

“We, ah, talked, sort of. Geralt and I told her we’d have a decision by the time we left for Kaer Morhen, but I think she knows we have no real legs to stand on here. Anyway, she cried, I cried, and she fell asleep with us last night.”

“They’re still asleep, then?”

“Short answer? Yes. Ciri can sleep like the dead, and you know emotion exhausts my dear husband.” 

Yen snorted, tipping her head at the kettle just before it began to whistle. Jaskier forgot, sometimes, that she was just as deadly and powerful as Geralt, maybe even more so. She could coax plants out of bone-dry soil, travel hundreds of leagues in a single step, and kill a man with a flick of her hand. 

She also burned her tongue on too-hot tea, couldn’t say no to her wife, and never beat Jaskier in Gwent. That was because he cheated, though, and they both knew it. They sat in comfortable silence, occasionally sipping and swearing when the water was somehow  _ still _ too hot. Jaskier had just finished his first mug and was pouring his second when Geralt crept into the kitchen, nodding at Yen before kissing him. 

“Morning, love. Tea?”

Geralt shook his head, ambling to the seat across from Yen and settling back as Jaskier sat in his lap, carefully placing his steaming mug in front of them. Yen merely arched an eyebrow, draining the last of her tea. 

“You’re lucky ‘Lia isn’t here; we could out-adorable you  _ easily _ .”

Jaskier snorted, sipping his ( _ fucking hot, ow _ ) drink and tangling a hand in Geralt’s hair for good measure. 

“Impossible. I kissed him with morning breath, Yen, that counts for double points.”

The mage shook her head, grinning as she deposited her mug in the washbasin and headed for the door

“Thank you for the tea, Jaskier. I’ll be back for dinner, yeah?”

“Bring Thalia- she’s nicer to me.”

And with an  _ incredibly  _ crude gesture, Yennefer swept out the door and shut it soft behind her.

Ciri poked her head out, sniffing the air before shuffling to the table and stealing Jaskier’s mug. Melitele, the girl was lucky he loved her; very few were allowed to steal his tea before his third mug. She plopped into Yen’s recently-vacated chair, dragging a hand through her curls and wincing as her hand caught. 

“Was Auntie Yen here?”

“Mhm. She just left- she’ll be back for dinner with Thalia.”

“ _ Fuck _ . Sorry. Shit. I forgot I said I’d have breakfast with Szymon this morning. Love you!”

Jaskier laughed, tipping his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder as their front door was ruthlessly abused once again by their daughter.

“The energy of the young, my love, is shockingly boundless. I, on the other hand, am old, waylaid, wading into the future cock first. Much as I was in my youth, I suppose, bar the ‘old’ bit. That one’s a new development.”

“You could do it too.”

Quiet words, mumbled into his shoulder, so soft Jaskier didn’t quite register what they meant. He waited, humming slowly as Geralt’s hands bunched the material of his shirt.

“You could...take the mutagens. Just for the slowed ageing.”

Melitele, how many times in a fucking week- no, a  _ day _ -could his heart break? Too many, was the answer. 

“Geralt. I love you. I was put on this Continent, as a human, for a reason. Plus, I think that eternity-or however long you witchers live-would become  _ terribly  _ boring.”

Geralt nodded into his shoulder. He’d considered it, before, had Vesemir pull him aside and ask if he wanted to. But he was younger, then, and he shuddered to think the havoc the potions would wreak on his body now. 

“Alright, mighty wolf, enough wallowing. We’ve got four weeks before we head for Kaer Morhen, and we sure as  _ hell _ will not be spending them brooding on the past. Up you get- why don’t you go see what Jan’s got for us, keep an eye on our girl like I know you want to.”

The month passed in a blur, even for Geralt. Between his smithy, Yen’s chickens being hunted by a stray dog, Jaskier’s frenzy to jar and preserve the entirety of his garden and orchard, and Ciri’s increased training, every day was spent as fully as possible. He dropped into bed at night as exhausted as he’d been since his hunting days, waking up the next day to hammer and boil and track and train all over again. 

The distraction was welcome, but he found that as day after day dropped off the calendar, he grew more at peace with Ciri’s decision. Vesemir had made the process as safe as possible, she was young, and she could handle it. Was he terrified?  _ Of fucking course.  _ His daughter chose to enter a field that was as competitive and bloody on the inside as it was deadly and dangerous on the outside, a field he’d almost lost his life to more times than he could count.

But he also knew that this wasn’t a decision made through rose-tinted glass. He’d sat her down and explained, in detail he’d only ever given Jaskier, the exact mutation process. The pain, the syringes, the sudden influx of sight and sound and smell that would make her vomit for weeks on end until her body adjusted. That her uncles and grandfather would no longer be shoulders to cry on, that they would be mean and cunning and constantly testing her. She would have to earn her place, as every witcher did, build up her image and her name from scratch. There would be no frustration, no emotion. Ciri had paled while he was talking, but never flinched, never turned away. She was as prepared as Geralt could make her.

Before they all knew it they were packing, calling across the house for missing nightgowns or brandy for Vesemir or Jaskier’s spare lute strings. Sixteen years of this, and they still hadn’t improved. It was impressive, really, the degree to which they scoured the house. They left the pantry stocked with Jaskier’s garden preserves, stored their linens away, made sure every dish was clean and every sock tucked into their bags. Geralt was always the last one in every room, able to scent out any missing items to save them doubling back.

Ciri and her boyfriend loaded the horses as he completed the sweep, coming to stand next to Jaskier in the doorway. They watched the couple chatter, laughing and exchanging jabs as they saddled and stocked without thinking. 

“They won’t last.”

Geralt looked in surprise at the bard, who frowned at him from where he leaned.

“She told him she wasn’t coming back in the spring and he took it remarkably well, but I’ve a feeling that once she starts to see the continent she’ll leave him.”

“Hi, I was wondering if you’d seen my husband? Yea high, hopeless romantic?”

He ducked as Jaskier swiped at his head, jogging out into the street as the other man locked the door behind them. He wasn’t the biggest fan of the baker’s boy (read: the concept of Ciri having a boyfriend), but Jaskier must be more upset about her leaving than he let on to be  _ that _ pessimistic. They were, in a way, cute. Young love, he supposed. Yennefer and Thalia were fussing, checking their bags and slipping in extra potions and herbs for the trip. Geralt shook his head; worriers, the both of them, what with the keep being only a week’s journey away. Shorter, now that Ciri was older and they didn’t have to stop every league.

He swung up easily onto Roach, watching the baker’s boy blush as he gave Ciri his hand and helped her onto Rat. Jaskier moved beside him, seated neatly on Daisy and making the softest fucking face Geralt had ever seen, Melitele above. It was simply unfair how much he loved the man, really. Downright  _ unreasonable _ . He cleared his throat, nudging Jaskier’s foot with his.

“She’s not leaving forever. We’ve still got the winter.”

“I know. She’ll make us proud.”

Ciri turned, spurring Rat into a trot and grinning back at them. They nodded at their various accumulated people, Jaskier twisting to wave as they rode out of town. They watched as their daughter raced ahead, blowing kisses to the children she rode past and waving at the adults. 

“She already has.”

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh the state of the wooooooorlddddd  
> anyway! I totally cried writing this. sobbed. [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts) knows.   
> let me know what you thought!! ideas, theories, prompts, i'm open to it all <3  
> come find me on the [tumblies](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/); as always, i'm here to talk if you're ever feeling overwhelmed or just want to chat!  
> much love to all of you


End file.
